


...and when the rain washes you clean (you'll know)

by StoriesofmyLife



Series: shades of healing [1]
Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series), Karate Kid (Movies)
Genre: 80's, And then more, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing Boys, Daniel and Johnny become friends, Dorks in Love, Injury Recovery, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Not Canon Compliant, Slow Burn, Teen Crush, Teen Romance, Teen Years, Teenage Universe, Teenagers, What could of been, after the All Valley Tournament, and some emotional ones, kind of, lawrusso
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26265040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoriesofmyLife/pseuds/StoriesofmyLife
Summary: When Daniel answers the door, a week after the All Valley Tournament, he'd been expecting Jehovah's Witnesses, asking him if he found Jesus or maybe Ed McMahon, big check in hand, telling him he'd won a million dollars.What he's not expecting, however, is to find Johnny Lawrence, decked out in designer jeans and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world, than standing there, at Daniel's front door, on the wrong side of the tracks.~Or--Daniel's healing from the knee injury he sustained during the All Valley Tournament, Johnny tries to make amends and then feelings happen that neither one of them really saw coming.
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso & Mr. Miyagi, Daniel LaRusso/Ali Mills (past), Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence, Johnny Lawrence/Ali Mills (past)
Series: shades of healing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908265
Comments: 78
Kudos: 624





	...and when the rain washes you clean (you'll know)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first story for this fandom and I'm a little nervous about posting it. I was scrolling through netflix the other night and saw the trailer for Cobra Kai and it took me down a rabbit hole that, honestly, surprised me. It's been years since I'd watch the Karate Kit movies and I re-watched them all in one night and I plan to start watching the actual show very very soon. 
> 
> But first, I started reading all the lovely fics that are on here and then I got the idea for this story and it literally wrote itself in about three to four days. 
> 
> I took some creative liberties--you'll notice that, though not specifically mentioned, the All Valley Tournament took place a little bit earlier than it was in the movies (in my mind it's around Thanksgiving or the first weekend of December). It'll make sense once you read it and I'll explain in the end notes. 
> 
> This story was edited by me, I don't have a beta, so if there's any mistakes, please excuse them :)
> 
> I really hope you guys enjoy this :)

Crutches, Daniel decides, are an absolute _drag._

It’s been two days and he’s already made the executive decision that for the next six to eight weeks, he will remain sitting on the living room couch, TV remote in hand and he’ll only move if the building is on fire or his bladder is in danger of exploding. He’ll figure out how to get access to food and water later, for now, high on painkillers, he contends himself with reruns of the _Addams Family_ playing in grainy black white on the halfway decent TV set his mom splurged on in celebration of her promotion. 

Daniel wonders if he can finally manage to persuade his mom to splurge on cable, too, considering he’s become an invalid and all. He figures he’s got about a 50/50 chance of success, judging by the fussing she’s been doing over him ever since the tournament—he hasn't given her too much of a hard time about it, like he usually would. He figures, from an outside perspective, seeing someone almost get their leg torn in two, not once, not twice, but _three_ times would be mildly horrifying, especially if that someone was your son. 

It only worsened when, after his victory dinner, his leg had swelled so bad that they swung by the ER on the way home. A few X-Ray’s and a MRI scan later, they determined that, not only did Bobby and Jonny _almost_ succeed in ripping his leg in two, they managed to damage and tear a bunch of important shit in their unsuccessful mission to permanently maim him. The end result was not one, but _two_ separate surgeries, four days in a hospital and six to eight weeks on crutches.

_It could be longer,_ the doctor had said with a sigh that Daniel had decided he didn’t like, _given the extent of the injury. You’ll be lucky to walk normally again, never mind do so without pain or a limp._

His mother had been (rightfully) distraught at the thought of her son walking with a limp for the rest of his life, but Daniel had waved off her concern. He could give a shit about a limp, his main concern was wether or not he could still practice karate. 

When he’d brought it up to the doctor, he was pretty sure he’d given his mother a coronary and Daniel was half afraid, when his mother pulled the doctor out into the hallway, that she was trying to convince him to cut something _else_ that really would put him out of is short lived karate career. 

(She could pretty convincing, his ma and Daniel prayed that his doctor was at least half way decent enough that he was above the powers of persuasion)

The doctor said the surgery went fine, however and his ma didn’t look particularly smug, so Daniel figured he was in the clear.

His ma hovered over him all day yesterday and he knows she didn’t want to leave him this morning, but she had just started this job and she didn’t want to take anymore time off than she already had. 

It took four reassurances that he’d call her if he needed anything, six that Mr. Miyagi was just down the stairs if an emergency were to arise and two reminders that he did, in fact, know how to dial 911 if anything serious were to happen. 

She’d finally left, pressing a tacky, lipstick kiss to his forehead and a reminder to call if he needed her. 

He’s been sitting on the couch ever since and his earlier plan of not moving is already being revised as the tall glass of orange juice he’d had with breakfast is making it’s presence known in his bladder. 

Just as he’s eyeing his crutches, debating on the merits of adult diapers, there’s a knock at the door. 

Groaning, Daniel manages to shift his weight onto his right foot and push himself up from the couch, scrabbling for his crutches when the flare of pain almost bowls him over on his ass. 

“Better be Ed McMahon, tellin’ me I won a million dollars,“ Daniel mutters, crutching the ten feet from the couch to the door. “This better not be no Jehovah’s witnesses coming to ask me if I’ve found Jesus or nothin’—“

It’s not Jehovah’s Witnesses. 

And it’s definitely _not_ Ed McMahon with a big check and balloons. 

It’s the _very_ last person Daniel would ever think would be standing at his door. 

Johnny Lawrence is standing there, hands in his designer jean pockets, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world than here, on Daniel LaRusso’s doorstep, on the wrong side of the tracks.

For a moment, Daniel wonders if he’s hallucinating—Percocet is a _wonderful_ drug—but then Johnny smirks and says, “Nice pants, LaRusso,” before he gently pushes past him and into the apartment, leaving Daniel standing there, blinking confusedly at the worn _welcom_ e mat his ma had scrounged up when they first moved in. 

“Thanks,” Daniel finds himself saying, letting the screen door slam shut behind him. 

Johnny takes in the worn furniture, the stains on the carpet that had been there when Daniel and his ma moved in a few months ago, the pictures lining the walls, before he meets Daniels eyes again, smirk gentling into something softer, kinder. 

Daniel blames his head getting all fuzzy at the sight on the drugs. Or a delayed head rush from standing up after sitting so long. 

It’s definitely _not_ because he’s never seen Johnny smile before, let alone had the full force of that smile directed at him. 

Definitely the drugs, then. 

“Nice place,” Johnny says and he actually sounds _genuine,_ which only serves to throw Daniel for even more of a loop. 

“Thanks,” Daniel repeats, because it’s the polite thing to do and also for lack of nothing else to say, because what _should_ he say? 

He and Johnny aren’t friends. Daniel can’t even recall them having an actual conversation that wasn’t just trading jabs and insults that lead into Johnny kicking his ass and sending Daniel home battered, bruised and weary of living in this stupid town another day, let alone long enough for him to actually graduate and leave. 

And if Daniel’s being completely honest, he’d been hoping that after the tournament, after _winning_ , Johnny and his crew would finally leave him alone to finish out his senior year in peace. But now he’s here, in Daniel’s living room and Daniel’s a little too stoned to really try and understand the missing variable in this particular equation. 

An awkward silence settles over the room and Daniel shifts on his crutches, wincing when the movement pulls uncomfortably at his knee and it draws Johnny’s attention to the impressive medical hardware adorning Daniel’s leg. 

An odd looks crosses Johnny’s face at the sight and it makes Daniel feel exposed the longer Johnny stands there and stares at it. 

Johnny swallows, meeting Daniel’s eyes. “Is that—“ he starts, nodding to Daniel’s knee, seeming unable to finish his question.

_My fault_

It hangs there, between them, awkwardly and Daniel waits to see if Johnny’s gonna actually ask the question. When he doesn’t, just sort of looks between Daniel and his bandaged knee helplessly, Daniel deices to take pity on him. 

“From the tournament?” Daniel finishes for him. 

Johnny nods, looking a mix between grateful and guilty and Daniel can’t help but huff a laugh. 

“Ah, yeah, it’s uh—“ Daniel shrugs, looking down at the brace, the ace bandages underneath. Shrugs again. “It looks worse than it is.”

Johnny frowns. “It looks pretty bad, dude.” His eyes drift to the crutches currently holding Daniel up. “How long do you have to be on those?”

“Six to eight weeks, give or take,” Daniel adds when Johnny’s frown deepens. “Seriously, it’s not that bad.”

“What’s ‘not that bad’?” Johnny asks, crossing his arms across his chest. 

Daniel ignores the way his stomach warms at the way Johnny’s biceps flex with the movement, emphasized by the sleeves of his blue button down. 

Daniel clears his throat, feeling his cheeks flush when Johnny raises a blonde eyebrow that seems to say _I’m waiting._

“Dislocated knee, torn ACL, MCL and a small fracture on the tip of my femur,” Daniel answers after a beat. 

Johnny winces. 

“Seriously, it’s all good. They popped my knee back into place, stitched my ligaments back together and I should be as good as new in like, two months. I’m good,” Daniel insists, wondering if he sounds like a broken record. 

Johnny still doesn’t look convinced, if anything, the guilty look on his face _worsens_ and Daniel doesn’t really know what to do with it. 

So he decides to change the subject, namely, why the fuck _Johnny Lawrence_ is standing in the middle of his living room on a Monday afternoon. 

“So whaddyah doin’ in my neighborhood? You get lost or somethin’?” Daniel teases, crutching his way into the kitchen. He doesn't have to look to know Johnny’s following him. He’s not sure how, but he just _knows._ Daniel tries not to think too hard about it.

Johnny doesn't answer him right away and Daniel just gives him time, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and a can of Coke from the fridge. He slides them both down the counter, into Johnny’s waiting hand. 

Johnny examines the can, playing with the tab and Daniel helps himself to a banana that was left out on the counter, not really out of hunger or a desire to eat it, but he needs something to do with his hands while he waits for Johnny to decide whether or not he wants to speak or keep staring at the Coke can. 

“I don’t really—“ Johnny starts, pauses. Takes a breath. Clears his throat. Takes another breath. Opens his mouth, closes it. 

Daniel watches as Johnny visibly struggles and maybe there’s a part of him that should enjoy it, after everything Johnny has done to him, but it just makes him… _sad._

It’s the same feeling Daniel got when he limped out of the arena behind Mr. Miyagi and overheard Kreese berating Johnny for losing. For letting Daniel beat him. And when that berating turned into physical violence, rather than feel vindicated, Daniel felt a rush of overwhelming sympathy for the guy. 

_You’re alright, LaRusso_

So Daniel decides, rather than continue to stand there and watch Johnny struggle, to throw the poor guy a life line. 

Digging in the cupboard, he snags a couple bags of chips and tosses them in Johnny’s direction, who catches them on reflex, shooting Daniel a confused look. 

“Can’t exactly hold those and these at the same time,” Daniel explains, nodding down to his crutches. “Now c’mon, there’s a Scooby-Doo marathon starting in ten minutes and I don’t want to miss it.”

Johnny snorts, shaking his head and there’s a smile quirking at his lips—an actual _smile—holy shit—_

“Sure thing, LaRusso, on one condition.” Johnny says, interrupting Daniel’s train of thought. 

“What’s that?” Daniel asks absently, digging around in the fridge for another drink, this one for himself. 

“You put on actual pants.” 

Daniel pauses, shooting Johnny a look of confusion _because of course he’s wearing pants—_

But Johnny isn’t looking at him, his eyes are elsewhere and Daniel follows gaze and… _oh. Right_. He never did actually put pants on this morning when he hobbled his way out to living room. Which meant all he was wearing currently was an old Mets t-shirt and his _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle_ boxers that his mom got him last Christmas. 

_Fuck._

Johnny’s greeting from earlier rang in his ears— _nice pants, LaRusso—_ and Daniel feels himself flush, which only gets worse once he catches sight of Johnny’s smirking face and raised eyebrows. 

To save face, Daniel just rolls his eyes and shrugs as best he can while still trying to keep his balance on his crutches. “You’re just jealous.”

_“Right.”_

“You _are._ And for your information, those comics rock, okay? Like, they’re teenagers, but they’re also turtles and turtles are _awesome_ and they’re ninjas, who fight crime, _crime_ —“

“LaRusso?”

“What?”

_“Pants.”_

“Right.”

*

It takes Daniel an embarrassing amount of time to put pants on. Mainly because after he’s already put them on, his bladder reminds him that he had actually been getting up to pee when he heard Johnny’s knock on the door. So he has to double back to the bathroom, take his pants off again, figure out how to pee on crutches and then there’s the dilemma of having to get his pants _back_ on which involves sitting down on the toilet, wiggling back into the jean shorts, almost braining himself on the cabinet above the toilet when he gets a little overzealous with his gyrating and then heaving himself off the toilet, back on to his good leg and hopping, one footed, towards his crutches. 

The whole ordeal takes him damn near fifteen minutes and by the time he crutches his way back to the living room, his pain pills are wearing off, his energy is zapped and he’s convinced himself that adult diapers are the way to go because this _sucks._

Johnny’s made himself comfortable on the couch and is already watching the proposed _Scooby-Doo_ marathon. He looks up when Daniel enters the living room and raises an eyebrow when Daniel all but collapses onto the couch with a sigh of relief. 

“Took you long enough,” Johnny says. 

“Took the scenic route,” Daniel quips. Nodding to the far away pill bottle, he asks, “Care to grab those for me?”

Johnny rolls his eyes, snagging the orange pill bottle and slaps it into Daniel’s awaiting palm. He thumbs out two and doesn't even bother with a drink, just dry swallows the pills and tosses the bottle back onto the coffee table, uncaring where it lands. 

“Does it hurt?” Johnny asks and Daniel isn’t one hundred percent sure, but it sounds like he’s actually _concerned._

Which is just plain _weird._

_You’re alright, LaRusso._

“It definitely doesn’t tickle,” Daniel answers, lips quirking into a shit eating grin when Johnny sighs, shooting him an exasperated look. Sobering, Daniel shrugs and says, more seriously, “I mean, yeah, it—it definitely doesn't feel _good._ Like, I can feel where they were poking around in there and I’m pretty sure my muscles resemble scrambled eggs right about now but—“ Daniel shrugs again, offering Johnny a small smile. “No pain, no gain, right?”

Johnny scoffs. “Right,” he mutters, so quiet, Daniel wonders if he was even supposed to hear it. 

So he doesn't say anything, just offers Johnny another smile before he lets his eyes drift to the TV, where Shaggy and Scooby are too busy eating scooby snacks to notice the ghost sneaking up behind them and this is actually a really good episode, so Daniel let’s himself get lost in the ghost adventures and the Mystery Machine and the gang’s antics. 

_“Rut Roo ‘Raggy—“_

_“Like, Scoob, behind you—“_

_“Jinkies!”_

“I’m sorry.”

Daniel blinks, startled, his eyes moving from the TV to the side of Johnny’s face, but Johnny’s gaze hasn’t left the television. In fact, he looks determined to look at anything _but_ Daniel. 

“For what?” Daniel asks when Johnny doesn’t look like he’s going to elaborate further. 

Johnny huffs. “You know what.”

Daniel bites his lip, knowing there’s one of two ways he can go about this: 

Option one: He can keep his temper cool, be a mature adult about this and take what Johnny’s offering and let bygones be bygones. 

_Or_

Option two: He can give in to the temptation be a smart ass, say _fuck it_ and force Johnny to own up to the absolute _hell_ he’s put Daniel through these last five months. How miserable he’s made Daniel feel. Over a _girl._ Who Daniel really doesn't even _like_ that much—at least, not like _that._

Daniel’s leaning more towards option _numero dos,_ because he’s not a total saint, but Johnny beats him to the punch by turning towards him and fixing him with the full brunt of that blue eyed stare and any smart ass remark Daniel had on the tip of his tongue, shrivels up and dies because _wow,_ Johnny’s eyes are really _blue._ Like, put the ocean to shame _blue._ Like the sky pales in comparison _blue._

_Blue blue blue blue—_

“Look, I’m an asshole, okay? And that’s not an excuse for the things that I’ve done to you, I know that, but I—“ Johnny pauses, bites his lip and Daniel tries not to zero in on the movement. Tries not to think about biting that lip, too. 

_I must really be stoned,_ Daniel thinks to himself, shaking himself from _that_ particular train of thought. 

Johnny sighs and it sounds tired, worn out in a way that Daniel feels down to his very core. 

“Knocking you around is one thing, but doing this—“ Johnny gestures to Daniel’s leg that’s propped up on a mountain of pillows piled onto the coffee table. “—causing permanent damage, that’s something else entirely, man. I never—I didn’t want that.”

Daniel wants to point out that Johnny’s definition of _knocking around_ may not be a universal term—because if bruised ribs and pissing blood for a week is a result of being _knocked around_ by Johnny Lawrence, Daniel _so_ does not want to find out what it’s like to be on the receiving end when Johnny’s being serious—but he’s trying to be magnanimous, so he decides to overlook the comment and focus on something else, like—

“Technically, Bobby was the one that caused the damage,” Daniel points out. 

“And I didn’t exploit it?” Johnny counters, raising an eyebrow. 

Well, he’s got Daniel there. 

Johnny must read it on his face, because he chuckles, but it doesn't sound very humorous. It sounds bitter, dark, angry and it makes something twist uncomfortably in Daniel’s stomach. 

“It was fucked, what I did, I know that,” Johnny says after a beat of silence. “All of it, really. I’ve been—it’s just—look, I’m just _sorry,_ okay?”

It comes out angrily, but Daniel can see the sincerity in Johnny’s eyes, so he takes what he can get. 

“I’m not sayin’ what you did was right, either,” Daniel begins slowly, carefully. “I don’t think I deserved half of what you dished out, but I can also admit that I’m not completely innocent in this, either. I did some antagonizing of my own and well, I probably would’ve punched me, too, so,” Daniel shrugs a shoulder, “I get it, I guess.”

“You were a punk,” Johnny agrees easily, opening a bag of chips. 

Daniel squawks in prostest. “Hey, I ain’t no punk—“

Johnny rolls his eyes, reaching for the remote to turn the TV up, but Daniel snatches it out of his hand. 

Johnny lets him do it, shrugging. “Fine, a twerp then.”

Daniel scowls and Johnny grins. “You said it yourself, LaRusso or have the drugs messed with your brain that badly?”

Daniel grumbles, snagging a chip out of the open bag. “Whatever, I still kicked your ass. Got the trophy to prove it—” 

“With an illegal crane kick—“

“Because _your_ shot to my leg was _totally legal_ —“

Johnny rolls his eyes, slouching down on the couch. “Shut up, would you? I actually like this episode.”

A pause and then:

“And wipe the smug look off your face. You may have the trophy but I can still kick your ass.”

Daniel laughs and after a moment, he sees Johnny lips twitch into a smile before he starts laughing, too. 

_You’re alright, LaRusso_

The sound is just as glorious as Daniel thought it would be and he lets the satisfaction wash over him as they sit there, watching Scooby Doo and passing the chip bag back and forth. And that’s how they spend the rest of the afternoon, until the pain pills kick in and Daniel can’t keep his eyes open. He falls asleep to the sound of Scooby and the gang solving mysteries and Johnny Lawrence soft laughter.

*

Johnny comes over every day, after that. Usually in the early afternoon, after Daniel’s mom has left for work, and they just hang out. Watching shitty TV shows, reading comics and one day, during one of Daniel’s twenty minute trips to the bathroom, he comes out to find Johnny setting up an old Monopoly board on the coffee table and they spend the rest of the day playing the board game. They end up fighting over the rules, someone gets accused of cheating almost every other turn, but it’s _fun_ in a way Daniel hasn’t experienced since they moved here. 

Sometimes, theydig through his ma’s old records and listen to music all day, arguing over which band was better. Agreeing that, while they both thought Madonna was overrated, her music was still catchy and that Stevie Nicks reigns supreme over every lead singer, in any band, in any genre, _ever._

Daniel tells Johnny about the car Mr. Miyagi fixed up for him, Johnny tells him about building his firebird from the ground up. Daniel tells Johnny how much he misses Jersey and Johnny tells Daniel that he’s never been out of California. Daniel tells Johnny about driving out here, cross country, all the way from Jersey. How he saw stars for the first time outside a motel in West Virginia. How the rolling dips and turns of the mountains in Tennessee made him car sick. How big the Grand Canyon was. How small it made him feel. How hot the Arizona desert was. 

Johnny listens to it all, lips quirked in between a smile and a smirk, blue eyes dancing with bright laughter whenever Daniel tells him a particular funny story about their adventures on the road. And Daniel basks in it. Johnny has the _best_ laugh—it’s open and unrestrained, bright and melodious, _contagious._ It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, Daniel feels like he’s being handed the trophy all over again. 

Johnny doesn’t really talk about his own parents and Daniel doesn’t pry, but sometimes, Johnny lets something slip, every now and then, usually about his mom. They were always offhand comments like _oh my mom loves this song_ or _that’s my mom’s favorite colo_ r or _my mom used to make the best brownies._

Useless little tidbits of information that most people would discard, but Daniel collects each piece like they were precious gold, keeping them tucked away safe in his memory for later.

He never talks about his dad. 

Until one day, when Daniel’s crutching around the kitchen, getting them some snacks—he’s getting pretty handy on these crutches, he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter—Johnny asks, out of the blue:

“What happened to your dad?” 

Daniel pauses in his rummaging, looking over his shoulder to find Johnny, holding a picture frame in his hands and Daniel doesn’t even have to see it to know what picture he’s holding. 

“He died when I was eight,” Daniel answers. Johnny looks up from the picture and Daniel elaborates, “Stomach cancer. We uh, didn’t catch it early enough. Lasted two years though, so, better than nothin’, I guess.” 

Johnny pauses, looks down at the picture in his hands. “I’m sorry.” 

Daniel shrugs again, grabbing a packet of cookies at random. “It was long time ago.” 

“Doesn’t make it any easier,” Johnny says, setting the picture back on the shelf of the entertainment center. 

A familiar ache settles in Daniel’s chest at thought of his dad—his laugh, low and raspy from year of smoking cigars around a poker table. The warmth of his hands when they tucked Daniel in at night. The smell of old spice and engine oil. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The way he’d curse like a sailor at the TV when the Mets lost to Yankees. The way he’d slow dance with his mother in the kitchen after dinner, crooning along to Frank Sinatra. His singing was always off key and absolutely terrible, but it never failed to make his mother throw her head back and laugh. 

_God_ , he misses his dad.

Daniel swallows around the sudden lump his throat. “Yeah, I guess it doesn’t,” Daniel agrees softly. Clearing his throat, he adds, “You know, it’s funny. I can remember certain things about him—like the way he’d curse anyone who was a fan of the Yankees, the kind of cigars he’d smoke, the way he’d read to me at night—but I don’t remember _him._ Like I know he was _there_ , but it’s been my ma and me for so long, it’s weird to remember that there was someone else there. Like it hasn’t always been that way, just me an’ her,” Daniel huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “It’s stupid and I’m probably not makin’ any sort of sense but—I was so angry at him for dyin’. I don’t think I ever really let myself miss him—“ _until now,_ _until we moved here,_ _until it really was just me and my ma’ against the rich snobs of Encino Hills,_ Daniel thinks, but doesn't say.

Johnny probably hears it anyway, because he’s _Johnny_ and he just has this weird way of knowing the things that Daniel doesn’t say out loud. It’s kind of creepy and kind of awesome. 

“Sometimes I can’t even remember what he looks like,” Daniel admits, fingers tracing over the picture. His dad, arm around Daniel, matching Met’s t-shirts, matching smiles. Daniel’s face stained red from the melted snow cone he’d eaten right before the picture was taken. If he closes his eyes and _really_ focuses, he can remember that day. The heat. The sweat. The jeers from the crowd. His mother’s laughter. His dad’s curses. His mother’s scolding. His dad jumping out of his seat because the Mets won. Daniel blinks and the memory fades away like fog over the ocean, right as the sun comes up. 

“I have to come out here and look at pictures and even then, sometimes it feels like I’m lookin’ at a stranger,” Daniel says, voice barely above a whisper. 

Daniel senses Johnny move before it really registers in his brain. His body just seems to pick up on the movement and he tenses in response—old habits—but instead of whatever Daniel had been expecting, Johnny rests a hand, gentle, tentative, on his shoulder. Daniel sucks in a breath at the warmth, the callouses he can feel, even through the fabric of his t-shirt and tries to remember what they were even talking about. If it was important, because Johnny is touching him and in a nice way and it’s. Weird. Exhilarating. Nerve wracking. _Awesome._

“I don’t even know who my dad is,” Johnny admits and Daniel doesn't even breathe, for fear of scaring Johnny away from this rare moment of vulnerability. “He left my mom, right after I was born. Just packed his shit and left, didn’t even look back. Didn’t care that my mom was by herself with a baby and no money.”

At some point, Johnny’s thumb had begun rubbing circles along the curve of Daniels neck, right where the slope turns into his shoulder. It’s a rhythmic _back and forth_ , _back and forth_ motion like someone would rub a touch stone. Like his mother rubs her cross when she’s worried. Like Mr. Miyagi mutters Japanese prayers under his breath when he mediates. Grounding. Anchoring. _Soothing._

Like Daniel is the only thing tethering Johnny to the Earth at the moment. Something solid, _real,_ to chase away the unwanted memories that dance around Johnny’s brain on a daily basis. Daniel knows, he’s been there. Just admitted not even five minutes ago. 

Daniel doesn’t really know what to make of any of it, but he doesn't move, just lets Johnny have this— _back and forth, back and forth—_ until he decides he can stand on his own. 

“We moved around a lot. It was just me and my mom and whatever shit hole apartment she could afford on the tips she made from whatever shit hole diner she could find a waitressing job at,” Johnny’s voice isn't bitter, it sounds far away, almost _wistful,_ like not matter how shitty the circumstances, he’d give anything to go back to that time, those places. “It would’ve been easier on her, if we lived somewhere other than here, but my mom loves the ocean and she wanted me to grow up by it. So, she worked as many jobs as she could in order to keep us near it. She taught me how to surf with this shitty, second hand board her boss gave her that one of his boys out grew.” 

Daniel can’t see it, but he can picture Johnny’s smile—lips curved, slightlylopsided, a singular dimple on his right cheek. Pictures it on a smaller boy with round suntanned cheeks and wild blonde hair, damp from the ocean and sun. 

“We’d spend hours out there, building sand castles and surfing and afterwards, she’d always stop at this little ice cream shop and get me an ice cream cone. I always knew we were doing okay when she’d get something for herself, too,” Johnny huffs a laugh that’s more sad than humorous and something twists in Daniel stomach, leaving a bad taste in his mouth at the thought of Johnny being anything other than _happy._

He doesn’t really understand why the thought bothers him more than it should. 

He tries not to think about it. 

“Then she met Sid and everything changed. No more shitty apartments, no more dinner from the diners my mom worked at. A shot at a better life, with a better place to live, with better opportunities,” Johnny snorts derisively. “Yeah, _right.”_

And _there’s_ the bitterness, the uncoiled anger that seemed to always be lurking like a shadow around Johnny. Daniel’s never really been able to puzzle it out before, but he thinks, listening to Johnny talk about his stepdad—who, Daniel thinks privately, sounds like a _dick_ —he _gets_ it. But not in the way he was expecting, either.

Daniel always thought that the rich had it so _easy._ They didn’t know what it was like to struggle, to have to chose between the light bill or being able to eat. Back in Jersey, there was always this sense of _hopelessness_ that permeated the air right along with the smell garbage that littered the street and smell of oil from the rigs that were always down by the shore. Like this was all there was in life—working in a factory or the local deli or, if you were desperate enough, getting involved with the drugs and prostitution that polluted the local neighborhoods that were owned and operated by the Italian mob. No one ever dreamed that there was more to life than the neighborhood their ancestors helped build, back in the day, fresh off the boat from the motherland. And if they _did_ dream, that’s all it ever was, a _dream._ An empty promise that one day, _one day,_ they could escape the city that so often held people prisoner. 

Daniel understood why, when his ma was presented with opportunity to escape, she grabbed onto it with both hands and didn’t look back. She’d always wanted more for him than what they had back in Jersey. She was an optimist, his ma, but something she always failed to realize was that, just because they got out of Jersey, didn’t mean that they weren’t still stuck in the same viscous cycle that was poverty. That poor was poor, no matter where they ended up.

The only difference is that _here—_ in the land of blonde hair, blue eyes and trust funds—the fact that they were poor made them stick out like a sore thumb even worse than the accent and the dark features. 

At least back in Jersey, _everyone_ was poor, in some form or another. And nobody Daniel had ever been around had wanted to _stay_ that way. 

It didn’t make sense, at first, how someone could _wish_ to go back to being poor. And resent the very thing that, before this conversation, Daniel always thought would make life _that_ much easier. But listening to Johnny talk about life before he knew what it was like have money, Daniel suddenly realizes that maybe his ma was right when she’d tell him, in his particularly envious moments, that the grass _wasn’t_ always greener on the other side. 

_Huh,_ Daniel thinks, _how about that._

“I’d give anything to go back to that life,” Johnny murmurs. He says it so softly, Daniel isn’t sure he was supposed to hear it. 

So Daniel stays quiet, let’s Johnny do his _back and forth, back and forth_ motion, tries not to think about how it makes his belly heat in a way he’s never really experienced before, tries not to examine what _that_ means too closely. 

He doesn’t know how long they stand there like that, staring at the picture of Daniel and his dad on the shelf that needs a splash of pledge and a duster, Johnny’s thumb tracing _back and forth, back and forth_ over the warm skin of Daniel’s neck, the TV a distant sound in the background, forgotten in favor of this moment. 

But eventually, his knee starts to ache from standing so long, the fog from the pain meds starts to clear, letting the pain trickle in from the behind the barricade in his mind and Johnny must sense it, because he helps Daniel to the couch, easing him down gently onto the awaiting cushions. Daniel can’t help but groan in momentary relief and Johnny’s answering chuckle is a warm caress against the skin of Daniel’s cheek. 

“Drama queen,” Johnny teases, but there’s a _warmth_ to it, an almost _fondness_ and maybe Daniel imagines it, but it sounds almost _affectionate._

“‘m not dramatic,” Daniel protests. “My knee just fuckin’ hurts.”

Johnny grabs his pain meds from their permanent spot on the coffee table, thumbs out two and hands them to Daniel, who swallows them gratefully. 

“’s your fault, you k’ow,” Daniel continues, taking a sip of warm juice that’s been there since breakfast. He grimaces, handing the cup back to Johnny, letting their fingers brush when Johnny takes it and sets it back on the coffee table. 

Johnny, who’s heard this diatribe about a hundred times by now, just rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“Technically, it’s Bobby’s,” Johnny counters, tugging the old afghan Daniel’s Nonna knitted off the back of the couch, where it’s lived since Daniel could remember, and lays it over Daniel’s body. He’s not even cold, but the soft, worn fabric of the yarn feels good on his skin and so do the hands that occasionally brush over his skin as they tuck it into his body. 

“Tech’ally ’s y’r ass’ole Se’sei’s fa’lt,” Daniel slurs, the pain meds making his head feel heavy and floaty at the same time. 

The hands on the blanket pause and Daniel fights to keep his eyes open, but it’s a lost cause, he can already feel their affects tug at his brain, threatening to pull him under. 

“Yeah,” Johnny agrees, voice whisper soft. “I guess it is, huh?”

“D’nt wo’ry, d’nt bl’me ‘ou,” Daniel says, reaching out a hand to pat reassuringly at Johnny’s knee, but he misses by a mile and Johnny laughs, which is almost as good as being able to touch him. 

“God, you’re stoned,” Johnny mutters, but just like earlier, it sounds fond and it makes something warm settle low in Daniel’s belly, curling around in his chest like a lazy cat in a sunny windowsill 

Daniel smiles, wide and big and declares, “Yes, I am.”

Johnny’s eyes are a warm sapphire and they’re watching him with a mixture of amusement and something _else_ and when he ruffles Daniel’s hair, Daniel has to fight not to lean into the touch. 

“Go to sleep, Danny,” Johnny murmurs, voice warm, hands even warmer where they’re still in Daniel’s hair and Daniel doesn’t need to be told twice. 

He’s half asleep when he feels those hands leave his hair, but they don’t stray too far. Instead of hearing Johnny’s footsteps heading for the door like he expects, Daniel feels gentle hands picking up his feet where they’re laying across the couch cushions, careful—always so damn _careful_ —not to jostle his knee. Then he feels a weight settle in where his feet had been and then his skin is met with the texture of Johnny’s denim jeans as he slides Daniel’s feet into his lap. He can feel the heat radiating from the skin of Johnny’s thighs, even through the worn material. He can feel the strength in the corded muscles as they shift and move in order to get more comfortable. And then a hand, big and warm settles where his shin tapers into his foot and then a familiar, _back and forth, back and forth_ motion of a calloused thumb is back, this time, on the delicate skin of Daniel’s ankle. 

It’s soothing and it’s the final push Daniel needs to fall into unconsciousness, safe and warm. 

His last thought, before he fully slips off, is that no one’s called him _Danny_ since his father died. 

He doesn’t know what that means, but he finds that he doesn’t mind it. Not if Johnny’s the one calling him that. 

_You’re alright, LaRusso_

*

Christmas morning dawns a usual bright and sunny California day but with a bite in the air that had Daniel’s ma excited enough to leave the front door open, with only the screen door to protect Daniel from the chilly air as he sits on the couch and opens the presents his ma has for him under the tree. 

He gets the usual stuff—new socks, underwear, t-shirts, jeans, even a new pair of shoes that he was in _desperate_ need of—but his ma also got him a few new comic books and a pretty sweet car detailing kit he already can’t wait to use. 

He thinks that was it—his ma tries, Daniel knows that, but he’d learned a long time ago not to expect much underneath the Christmas tree, especially after his dad died and they went from a two income household to one—but his ma’s got this glint in her eyes that means she’s got something up her sleeve and Daniel has no idea what it could be because he knows all of this has already cost her a small fortune. 

But then she digs another present out from underneath the tree and sets it in his lap. It’s big and heavy—how he missed it this morning when he passed by the tree to eat breakfast, he has _no idea_ —and his ma is practically vibrating with excitement, so it must be something good. 

“Well? What are you waitin’ for? Open the damn thing before it grows legs and walks away,” His ma huffs impatiently from her spot next to the tree. 

Daniel rolls his eyes, but he can’t deny the excitement bubbling up in his chest and curiosity that burns white hot the longer the box sits there in his lap, unopened. 

“Alright, alright, ma, jeesh,” Daniel mutters good-naturedly as he rips into the present. 

His ma’s practically bouncing now, eyes gleaming and Daniel knows it’s killing her to not just blurt out what the present is. But then he peels the wrapping paper back enough to see a familiar logo and he pauses, flicking his gaze up to his mother, who doesn’t look like she’s breathing at this point, because _there’s not fuckin’ way—_

“Well? Whaddya think? It’s the right one, right?” Lucille frets, biting her lip. “I double checked with guy down at the electronic’s store, but—“

Daniel feels a lump rise in his throat and he tears the rest of the wrapping paper away and just stares at the now unwrapped box in his lap. 

It’s a gaming system, but not just any gaming system, _The_ Gaming System™. 

In Daniel’s hands was the Nintendo Entertainment System complete with Super Mario Bros, PAC-Man, Donkey-Kong and a baseball game that Daniel had never heard of but looked like it would be a lot of fun. 

“Ma, what—this is—I mean—this is too much, I can’t— _we_ can’t afford this—“ Daniel protests when he finds his voice. He tears his eyes away from the box and meets his mother’s gaze, who waves him off, her smile a mile wide. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Lucille says, grinning. “I wanted to do this for you. I know this whole sittin’ around thing hasn’t been easy on you, so I wanted to get you somethin’ that might make it a little bit easier.”

“Still, ma, I can’t—“

“You can and you will take it,” Lucille says sternly, cutting his protest off at the knees. Her gaze softens and she gets up from her spot on the floor to sit next to him on the couch. 

She wraps an arm across his shoulders and tugs him into her embrace and he goes willingly. 

“I know things ain’t been easy for us, ‘specially since your father died,” She begins, running her fingers through his still messy hair. “But we’re really doin’ alright now. This new job is workin’ out really well and they like me there and I think things are lookin’ up for us,” She pulls away and cups his face in her warm hands, smiling down at him with an ease he hasn’t seen in a long time. “I know this move ain’t been easy on you, baby, especially not at first. And I know I shoulda asked you first, but I think, in the end, it was still a good thing.” she brushes his hair back from his face, places a kiss on his forehead. “I may never be able to give you everything those rich kids got, but I can still give you some things and I think it’s about time I made up for some of the things you had to do without, growin’ up.”

A lump rises in Daniel’s throat that he tries really hard to swallow down. 

“Oh ma, I know I was a totally shithead—“ 

His ma frowns at the curse and tries to slap him on the back of the head, but he knew it was coming, so he dodges it, laughing. 

“C’mon, ma, I’m bein’ serious!” Daniel protests with a grin. “Don’t sit there and act like you don’t agree with me!”

His ma huffs, but he can see she’s fighting a smile so he settles back into her hold, knowing the coast is clear for now. 

“Look, what I’m tryin’ to say is, I know I was a jerk and I’m sorry,” Daniel admits, tone serious. “I know you were just tryin’ to do right by me and I didn’t really give this place a chance and for that, I’m sorry,” He shrugs and thinks of Mr. Miyagi, karate, _Johnny,_ “This place, it ain’t so bad. I’m really startin’ to like it here.”

His ma grins, bright and knowing and Daniel has a feeling he said too much. 

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with Johnny, now would it?” His ma asks, eyes twinkling in a way that makes Daniel flush bright red. 

“Ma, c’mon, it’s not like that, okay?” Daniel protests, tugging away from her hold. 

Lucille holds her hands up in surrender, but there’s still a knowing look in her eyes and a twitch to her lips that Daniel decides he _doesn’t_ like. 

“Fine, fine, I won’t say another word,” Lucille promises, but Daniel knows she’s lying through her teeth. “But I will say this: all I’ve ever wanted out life is for you to be happy. I know you and Johnny didn’t get off on the right foot, but if you’re willing to forgive him and trust him, I will, too.”

Relief sweeps through Daniel, a knot of tension he was unaware of holding, releasing at her blessing that he wasn’t sure he needed, until now. 

“Really? You don’t think I’m crazy or nothin’?” Daniel asks, biting his lip. 

Lucille smiles, grabbing his hand and holding it between both of hers. He’s never really noticed before, how much bigger his hands are compared to hers. He’s struck with the sudden realization that, in just under a year, things are going to be different. That this time next year, he’ll be away in college, probably working in order to help with his tuition and that this could very well be the last normal Christmas he gets to spend with his mom, just the two of them. 

But even then, it’s not just the two of them anymore. 

Mr. Miyagi is coming over later on this afternoon, to celebrate with them and have dinner. He’d promised Daniel yesterday that he was going to show him some traditions he grew up with in Okinawa and Daniel was over the moon excited to see what those were. 

Even Jonny had asked, in a roundabout way, if it would be okay if he swung by. 

_You know, later on. We could watch Johnny Carson, I think they’re replaying the Christmas special from last year. Supposed to be good._

He’d been fiddling with is keys, not looking at Daniel when he said it and Daniel had a strange feeling that he was being asked out. But he wrote it off because 1). this was _Johnny Lawrence_ and what would Johnny Lawrence want with a hood rat from Jersey? And 2). no one asks someone on a date to their own house to watch a rerun of a talk show that Daniel knew Johnny didn’t even really enjoy to begin with. 

But then Johnny had looked up at Daniel and locked him with that blue eyed stare that always made Daniel a little bit dizzy—like a sucker punch to the head—and Daniel was helpless to reply with anything but a quick and resounding _yes._

“Honey, the only thing I think you’re crazy for is getting into a sport where people knock you around for fun,” Lucille says. Shrugging, she adds, “other than that, I think you’re perfectly normal.”

Daniel rolls his eyes and his mother laughs, kissing his forehead before she disappears into the kitchen to start on dinner. 

Daniel eyes his newest toy, running his finger reverently over the box before he tears into it in search of the instructions. He wants to get it set up in time before Johnny shows up so he can practice a few rounds. 

He can’t kick his ass in his current state, but Daniel sure as hell can whip his ass at Super Mario Bros. 

*

The rest of the day consists of Daniel vegging out in front of the TV, equipped with his new gaming system and old Christmas records his mom digs out of the TV stand. Eventually, the guilt of being unhelpful prompts Daniel to put the controller down and crutch his way into the kitchen to help his mom with dinner. 

She sits him at the bar stools and has him chop, dice, slice and mince vegetables and fruits for various different dishes. She’s cooking enough food to feed a small army and a part of Daniel wonders if she remembers that it’s gonna be a smaller Christmas than what they’re used to back in Jersey. 

A small part of Daniel misses being shuffled from house to house on Christmas day—his Nonna’s in the morning for breakfast before Christmas Day mass, followed by lunch at uncle Louie’s and aunt Rachel’s, then dinner at uncle Sammy’s and aunt Jenny’s and then back to his Nonna’s for dinner and presents—but the bigger part is more excited at being able to sit at the adult table this year and increasing his chances of getting a drumstick from the giant turkey his ma bought last week at the grocery store. 

Mr. Miyagi comes over in the afternoon with even _more_ food and soon their apartment looks like a buffet with the spread his ma has prepared. They eat and exchange presents and Daniel even manages to rope Mr. Miyagi into playing a few rounds of _Donkey Kong_ with him and he (surprisingly, but not really) get his ass handed to him. 

After the fourth time, Daniel drops the control onto the coffee table and admits defeat. 

Mr. Miyagi pats him on the shoulder consolingly, but there’s a twinkle in the man’s eye that Daniel hasn’t seen since the tournament and his surgeries and Daniel decides that losing isn’t really that bad, after all. 

“No worry, Daniel-san. Practice make perfect,” Mr. Miyagi says sagely before he goes back into the kitchen to partake in the wine his mother has opened. 

Some of their neighbors that his mom has befriended since moving here pop in and say hello and somehow, their apartment becomes a revolving door of guests as a block party seems to have taken place outside on their floor. 

Daniel crutches outside and talks to Freddy, who apologizes for abandoning him at that ill-fated beach party when Daniel had first moved to town. They chat for a while and make promises to meet up at the beach to play soccer, once Daniel’s knee is better. They conversation drifts to plans after they graduate and Daniel finds himself unable to focus much after that, eyes scanning the crowd, looking for a familiar head of blonde hair every few minutes and it’s enough that Freddy takes notices, asking him if he’s okay. 

“Yeah, man, sorry, it’s just my knee—I’m kind of on some heavy pain meds and they make me a little foggy,” Daniel says and it’s not a lie, at least, not completely. They _do_ make him a little spacey in the head, but he hasn’t had one since before breakfast and it’s closing in on nine o’clock now. 

Freddy winces, eyeing the brace on Daniel’s knee with sympathy. “I bet, dude. I tore my ACL once, playing soccer and it was the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life.”

Daniel huffs a laugh. “Yeah, it’s definitely no picnic, that’s for sure.”

Freddy takes that as his cue to speak in depth about his own ACL injury and Daniel tries to listen, _really_ , he does, but it’s getting later and later and there’s still no sign of Johnny and suddenly, Daniel’s not really in the Christmas spirit anymore. 

The party breaks up not too much later—Freddy leaves Daniel with another apology and another promise to invite him down to the beach for soccer. Mr. Miyagi is too drunk to drive home and heads down to his office to crash on the cot he has stashed there and his mother leaves him with a kiss to the cheek and a tipsy _Merry Christmas, baby!_

Despite the pain in his knee from standing so long, Daniel finds himself wide awake. He doesn’t want to go back inside just yet, even if it is cold outside and all he’s wearing is a thin button up his mom got for him to wear specifically for today.

He crutches carefully—very, _very_ carefully—down the stairs and he ends up at Mr. Miyagi’s truck that’s parked in it’s usual secluded spot in the parking lot. He pops the tailgate and hops, one footed, up to sit down, resting his crutches next to him in the bed of the truck. He stretches his leg out as far as it will go—which isn’t far, he still can’t bend his knee more than a few inches despite the countless physical therapy sessions he’s had since his surgery—and feels the relief of sitting down after standing for so long.

Daniel lays back on the bed and looks up at the sky, where a full moon is shining brightly above him and just takes a moment to _breathe._

Today had been fun, but there was this sense of _incompleteness_ that had permeated the entire day and for the life of him, Daniel couldn’t figure out _why._ He thought, maybe, that it had something to do with not being around his family, but he didn’t miss them as much as he thought he would. There was the usual sadness of not having his dad there, but that wasn’t exactly new, so that wasn’t it, either. 

But as the day wore on and the sense of incompleteness grew, Daniel had finally admitted to himself that it was because he had wished Johnny was there with them, celebrating and laughing and sneaking sips of wine when Daniel’s mom wasn’t looking, blue eyes glinting mischievously across the table at Daniel as he did so. 

_I’ll kick your ass if you snitch on me, LaRusso,_ he’d whisper in his ear, eyes shimmering with the challenge

_I’d love to see you try,_ Daniel would whisper back, _I’m the one with the trophy, remember?_

_Cocky little shit,_ Johnny would mutter with a roll of his eyes, but there would be no heat behind it. Not anymore. _Just wait until that knee gets better, then we’ll see who the champion is, Danny._

Daniel shakes his head, a soft sigh leaving his lips that turns to fog in the cool night air. It’s funny, because if someone would’ve told him four months ago that he’d be lying here on Christmas Day, actually missing Johnny Lawrence’s company, Daniel would’ve told them they were crazy. 

_But now_ …Daniel knows what it’s like to make Johnny smile. To make him throw his head back in genuine laughter that’s not the least bit mocking or menacing. Daniel knows what makes him happy, what makes him sad, knows that he loves the beach, loves to surf, loves to eat his fries with ketchup and mayo mixed together, loves Stevie Nicks, has a secret obsession with Cyndi Lauper and that he prefers Scarface over the Godfather, likes pineapple on his pizza and that he’s allergic to peanuts. 

Daniel knows Johnny Lawrence, the _person—_ who he is underneath the tough guy exterior he wears like an armor. He knows his weaknesses and his strengths and Daniel’s surprises himself, sometimes, with how much he _wants_ Johnny—his constant teasing, his snark, his witty sexual innuendos that never fail to make Daniel blush like a school girl. 

It hits Daniel sometimes, like a crane kick to the face, that somewhere along the way, between the fights and the sarcastic comments and the fear and the loathing, the apologies and the odd stage of healing they’ve gone through together, how much he’s fallen for the blonde asshole. 

Because Johnny’s still an asshole, Daniel knows that’s never going to change. The difference is, Daniel isn’t afraid to be an asshole back. Not anymore. 

He doesn’t know when it happened, but Daniel stopped being afraid of Johnny a long time ago. If he's being completely honest with himself, Daniel doesn’t even know if he was ever truly _afraid_ of Johnny or of what Johnny represented for Daniel. 

He’s known, for a long time, that it wasn’t okay for boys to like other boys. At least, it wasn’t back in Jersey, not the part Daniel was from. Fags got beaten up on a daily basis back in Daniel’s old neighborhood and cops just turned a blind eye to it. Even if someone were suspected of being one, they’d beat ‘em just to remind ‘em why being a fag in their neighborhood wasn’t a good idea. 

Daniel’s sure the attitude wasn’t much better here, but he’s heard rumors about West Hollywood and some of the clubs there. He’s even seen a few men walking down the street holding hands, back when they first moved here. 

It’s not impossible, but it’s not exactly _possible,_ either and the whole idea of it—holding Johnny’s hand, kissing him, _touching_ him—sends just as many butterflies to his stomach as it does a nervous sense of dread. 

Because as much as Daniel wants to, he knows where the line in the sand has to be drawn. Because as similar as they are, Johnny will always be _Johnny Lawrence—_ living in one of the McMansion’s up on the Hill, going to the country club on the weekend with his parents, surrounded by friends that have done nothing but make Daniel’s life a living hell since he moved here. 

Daniel’s got no better shot at dating Johnny Lawrence than he ever did dating Ali Mills. 

This whole thing is giving him an ulcer. 

Daniel groans out loud, covering his face with his hands and thinks, _fuck._

“You better not be jerking one out in the back of your sensei’s truck,” A voice says,scaring the absolute _shit_ out of Daniel. “Because that’s whole new level of weird, even for you LaRusso.”

“Jesus Christ, Johnny,” Daniel swears, heart hammering in his throat. “Are you tryin’ to give me a heart attack or somethin’?”

Johnny appears out of the shadows and the full moon is bright enough that Daniel can make out his smirk as he hops up on the truck tailgate. There’s a stiffness to his movements that’s usually not there, making Johnny’s movements stilted and awkward where they’re usually graceful and fluid. 

Not that Daniel’s noticed or anything.

“If I wanted to kill you, Danny, it wouldn’t be by a heart attack, trust me,” Johnny answers, smirk stretching into a grin as he situates himself against the wheel well.

“You’re a real psycho, you know, ” Daniel says without much heat, laying back down, scooting over to make room for Johnny’s legs that are folded up comically like a pretzel in the tiny bed of the truck.

“And you talk too much,” Johnny counters, stretching his arms out across the side of the truck, all cocksure and arrogant. 

“I’ve barely said anything!” 

“Yeah, today maybe,” Johnny says, inspecting his nails, “but on a normal day you talk enough for the both of us, LaRusso.”

It’s said in jest, there’s more bite to it than normal, an echo of his old self and it’s makes Daniel’s hackles rise.

“Yeah, well, you bitch too much,” Daniel shoots back with a huff, crossing his arms over his chest, good mood evaporating like water on a sidewalk in the middle of summer. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

“You calling me a bitch, _La-Rus-so_?” Johnny asks, drawing Daniel’s name out in a way that’s all Johnny Lawrence bravado—mocking, menacing and just down right _mean._

“What the fuck is your problem?” Daniel demands hotly, rising up on his elbows to get a better look at Johnny. His jaw is clenched, the muscles jumping with how taught the muscle is and on a normal, Daniel might get distracted by that, but right now, he’s too confused and frankly, too pissed (he refuses to call it _hurt_ ) to really notice. 

There’s also an undercurrent of worry, gnawing away at his gut that’s telling him there’s something _wrong_ , that something’s happened, but he doesn't really understand it, not really. The worry comes with a voice that sounds strangely like Mr. Miyagi, tells him he’s on dangerous ground and needs to tread carefully. 

_Easy, Daniel-san. Have patience._

So he centers himself, takes a few deep breaths and focuses on that worry, harnessing it and letting it guide him (hopefully) in the right direction. 

Reaching out a tentative hand, Daniel rests it gently on Johnny’s knee and says, as gently as he can, “Johnny, what’s going on—“

He doesn't get to finish the _with you_ part of the question because Johnny shoves his hand away with enough force that it sends Daniel flying back into the side of the truck. Daniel’s first instinct is to catch himself, but the angle’s weird and his center of balance is off, so all he can do is flip his body onto his side to prevent his head from smashing into the lip of the bed, but by doing so, his knee—his injured, still swollen and stitched together, _knee_ —slams into the side of the truck with a loud _thunk._

Pain flares, white hot, all the way up Daniel’s leg, curling low into the pit of his stomach, punching all the air out of his lungs in the form of a sharp cry and it leaves him unable to _breathe._ His head is spinning and fireworks burst like embers behind his eyelids, making the lightheaded sensation _worse._ He feels nauseous, like he’s gonna throw up from the _throbachethrobachethrobache_ pulse of pain that matches the tandem beating of his heart.

Daniel’s vision swims, the moon doing pirouettes and spins and then he blinks and he’s staring into worried blue eyes and once the ringing in his ears fades, he realizes that someone is saying something to him. 

“Fuck, Danny, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—are you okay? C’mon, don’t pass out on me, just take a breath, I know it hurts, but you have to—you’ve got to breathe, Danny, c’mon—“

Johnny’s voice sounds panicked, _worried_ and if Daniel’s lungs would allow, he’d laugh. He’d actually laugh, because this is just— _too much._ It’s just _too fucking much_ and Daniel might be slightly high from the endorphins rushing through his system, but it’s either laugh or cry and Daniel’s damn sure not going to burst into tears like a little kid who fell off his bike and scraped his knee on the sidewalk.

He’s tougher than that, made of stronger stuff than that and it sobers him enough to get his bearings back enough to roll back over, onto his back, coughing as the oxygen fills his lungs and reenters his brain. 

“What the _fuck—“_ Daniel coughs, bringing hand to his chest to see if it’ll ease the sensation of an elephant sitting on it. Newsflash: _It doesn’t_. “—is wrong with you?”

Johnny reaches a hand out to help, but Daniel just bats him away angrily and Johnny recoils, like Daniel’s the one that hit him instead of it being the other way around. 

“I’m—I just— _fuck,_ Danny—“ Johnny says, voice thick, tone apologetic, but there’s an undercurrent of frustration that Daniel knows isn’t aimed at him, but it makes him tense nonetheless. Johnny catches it and he closes his eyes, blowing out a shaky breath that Daniel echoes. 

“I’m sorry for that, I didn’t mean to—you just—startled me, is all and I just— _reacted_ ,” Johnny says, voice whisper soft. “I wouldn’t ever— _won’t ever,_ ” he corrects, wincing, “hurt you. Not intentionally. Not anymore.”

And Daniel believes him. Even as his knee throbs it’s displeasure at being slammed against a hard surface, reminding him, almost mockingly, that if Johnny wanted to, he could easily start to wail on him and Daniel was really in no position to defend himself from it. 

Maybe he’s an idiot, maybe he’s a glutton for punishment, but Daniel believes Johnny, still trusts him to do the right thing. 

The silence stretches between them, long and filled with a tension that makes Daniel feel on edge in a way he’s never really felt around a person before. 

The moment feels delicate, like if he makes the wrong move, it will shatter like tempered glass under his finger tips. It feels like the first time Mr. Miyagi pressed a pair of pruning shears in his hand and taught him how to mold and shape a bonsai tree. 

_Careful, Daniel-San_ , he’d say, _cut wrong branch, branch won’t grow back. Cut right branch, tree will grow big and strong._

Daniel’s afraid he’s going to cut the wrong branch and this—whatever _this_ is—will be lost to him forever. 

“I’m sorry,” Daniel says and Johnny looks up at him in surprise. “I didn’t meant to startle you. I just—“ Daniel pauses, searches for the right words that won’t end with him getting a punch to the face, “wanted to help. You looked like you were upset about something.” He settles on finally. 

It’s open ended enough that Johnny can either elaborate or breeze over it, Daniel won’t push, either way. But he’s hoping for the first option, because he really wants know what made Johnny snap like that—made him fear Daniel, as if Daniel would ever hurt him. 

(Except for, you know, the crane kick to the face and all. But that was _one time_ and in self-defense, _okay_?)

_Careful, Daniel-San,_ his inner Miyagi cautions. _Careful_

Johnny seems to weigh his options and Daniel waits, keeping his eyes on the moon so Johnny doesn't feel like Daniel’s like, _peer-pressuring_ him into talking or anything. Which is a laughable thought, but Daniel wants Johnny to know that he’s got a choice in what happens here—he can talk if he wants, he can sit here and brood, whatever the choice is, Daniel’s just along for the ride. 

“I got into it with Sid, before I left to come here, it’s why I was late,” Johnny says eventually. His voice is heavy, worn down, _tired_ in a way that Daniel’s all too familiar with. “He’d been drinking and he just—lost it, for no reason. Started saying a bunch of shit and normally, like, I can take it but my mom was there and she just—sat there and let me have it. Didn’t defend me, just— _nothing,”_ Johnny laughs, bitter and ugly. “I lost my temper and I swung and then he swung and like, he’s never hit me before, you know? Like, he talks a lot of shit, makes threats and shit, but he never like, hits me. At least, he’s never tried it.”

Johnny shifts and the clouds part and then, in the blue glow of the moon, Daniel sees it, the bruise marring the skin around Johnny’s right eye. Judging by the angle and where the bruise lays across his cheek, it was probably an elbow to the face. 

Daniel can picture it: Johnny, lunging, fists flying, all fury and temper and Sid’s elbow, trying to block the incoming blow, catching Johnny’s cheekbone. Probably countered with a few jabs to the ribs, if the stiff way Johnny’s moving is anything to go by. 

“We knocked each other around for a bit, but then my mom got tired of it and yelled at us to stop it. But Sid wasn’t done and he got in a few more shots before my mom actually got mad and told him that enough was enough. I ran out the door before I could hear her excuses this time and I just drove around for a while, trying to calm down but he just—he makes me so goddman _angry,_ Danny, and I just can’t go back there—I can’t do it anymore—“

Johnny sounds like he’s choking and without thinking, Daniel grabs his hand and Johnny holds on to it like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored to this world, his thumb stroking _backandforth, backandforth_ along the delicate skin of Daniel’s wrist, right over his pulse point. 

Daniel wonders if Johnny can feel the way his heart is racing and then he wants to slap himself, because now is _so not the time for those thoughts, LaRusso._

Not when Johnny looks like he’s second away from shattering into a million pieces right before Daniel’s eyes. 

So, using Johnny’s hand as leverage, Daniel pulls himself up from the bed of the truck, ignoring the protest in his knee and grabs his crutches. Johnny watches him with lost blue eyes and it’s startling, how shaken he looks, how small and unsure. _Vulnerable_ , Daniel’s mind supplies. 

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Johnny was human—a kid, really, no different than Daniel himself. That he wasn’t this impenetrable force of nature that he came across as.

When Daniel’s safely on the ground, he holds a hand out to Johnny—a silent offering, an option. And after a beat, Johnny takes it, palm smooth and warm, knuckles bruised and scratched. Somewhere, deep in his gut, Daniel prays that Johnny got a few good hits into the smug bastard that thought beating on a kid was okay. 

Johnny must sense where his train of thought is going—of course he does, it’s _Johnny_ —because he squeezes Daniel’s hand, prompting Daniel to look up at him. 

Johnny’s right eye is almost swollen shut and this close, Daniel can see a bruise blooming on his chin, the swollen bottom lip, the dried blood on his chin where a ring must’ve caught the soft skin of his lips and split it right in two. 

Neither stop his blue eyes from glimmering with self-satisfaction or his lips to quirk up in that familiar cocky smirk that makes Daniel want to swoon and slap him upside the head simultaneously. 

“Don’t worry, LaRusso,” Johnny murmurs. “If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy.”

Daniel rolls his eyes, huffing a laugh. “Yeah, okay. C’mon Rocky, let’s get you cleaned up. I think there’s still some cookie’s left and if we hurry, we should be able to catch the end of Johnny Carson.”

Sadly, in order to do that, Daniel has to let go of Johnny’s hand, because he can’t hold on to it and his crutches at the same time. But it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make, because Johnny looks like he’s actually in a lot of pain and Daniel shares the sentiment, because his knee is throbbing like a bitch and all he wants is a pain pill and his bed. 

But before Daniel can get too far, though, Johnny’s hand is covering his, where it’s curled over the handle of the crutch, his fingertips brushing the thin skin over Daniel’s knuckles. It makes Daniel suck in a breath and flick his eyes up, swallowing heavily when he realizes just how close they are, just how little space there is between their faces. They’re basically sharing the same breath, the same space, co-existing in each other’s orbit and Daniel’s body is suddenly so aware that if he were to just turn his head, _this way,_ tilt his chin _that way_ , they’d be kissing. 

And _God,_ does he want to. 

“Daniel,” Johnny whispers and Daniel tastes it on his lips. 

“Yeah?”

“I was serious, about what I said earlier,” Johnny swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing and Daniel traces it with his eyes. Wants to trace it with his lips, maybe, if Johnny would let him. “I would never hurt you, not intentionally, not anymore.’

Daniel feels the weight of those words sink into his skin, curling around in his brain, commits them to memory and says, “I know.”

“Good, now,” Johnny says, voice prompting, pulling away and taking the moment with him. “I believe you said something about cookies?”

Daniel rolls his eyes and leads them into the apartment. 

*

_“Ow—jeez—LaRusso—OW!”_

Daniel rolls his eyes, removing the cotton ball from the cut on Johnny’s lip and tossing it aside on the coffee table, where a small pile of used medical supplies is growing steadily.

“Shut up, will yah? You’re gonna wake up the whole damn buildin’,” Daniel hisses, peeking out into the hallway to make sure his ma’s door is still closed. 

“What’s the matter, LaRusso? Is it past your bedtime?” Johnny mocks from his spot on the couch. “Not allowed to have friends over after nine— _OW, fuck_! _Watch it!”_

Daniel smirks, but softens his touch as he smoothes the edges of the butterfly bandage over the cut on Johnny’s eyebrow.

“Oops,” Daniel says innocently, tossing the empty wrappers over his shoulder, uncaring where they land for the moment. “My hand musta slipped.”

Johnny scowls. “You suck at this.”

Daniel just raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, but do I _look_ like Florence Nightingale to you?”

Johnny’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “ _Who?”_

“Do you _ever_ pay attention in history?” At Johnny’s blank look, Daniel elaborates, “She’s the founder of modern nursing, you know, ‘Lady with the Lamp? She— _never mind_ ,” Daniel mutters when Johnny’s eyes seem to glaze over. 

“You’re such a nerd, LaRusso,” Johnny teases.

Daniel feels the heat creep up his neck, but he just rolls his eyes and ignores it. “Whatever, just take off your shirt,” 

Johnny’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline and Daniel really wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole. 

“Jesus Christ— _not like that!”_ Daniel says, cheeks flushing fire engine red. “I want to check your ribs, make sure they’re not broken or whatever.”

Johnny just smirks and Daniel huffs, embarrassed. “Look, if you don’t want my help—“

“Relax, LaRusso,” Johnny says with a roll of his eyes—well, _eye,_ his right eye is now completely swollen shut and Daniel makes a note to grab an ice pack for it. “I’m just yankin’ your chain.”

Daniel sighs, closing his eyes and prays for patience. When he blinks them back open, he has to bite back a groan when he sees the amount of smooth, toned and tanned skin on display. 

But any arousal he may he feel, is doused, like a bucket of water being poured over a flame, when he sees the bruises marring Johnny’s ribs. 

Bile rises in Daniel’s throat, but he fights it back, focusing instead, on trying to help Johnny.

“Turn towards me,” Daniel requests softly and Johnny, surprisingly, does so without a snarky remark or complaint. 

The bruising runs from hip to armpit, all in various shapes and sizes, almost like—

“He got me on the ground,” Johnny explains, voice barely above a whisper. Daniel chances a look up and fights back a flinch at the haunted look in Johnny’s eyes. Johnny gives him a rueful smile. “Grappling isn’t really my style.”

Daniel swallows and looks away, back down at the purple marks that are mottled across Johnny’s skin. A road map of Sid’s rage. If he looks close enough, Daniel can see the outline of Sid’s shoes, the imprint of the soles. It makes him feel sick to his stomach. 

“I’m gonna check for any breaks now,” Daniel says, reaching out a cautious hand, waits for Johnny to nod his consent before he rests his hand along the expanse of Johnny’s ribs. 

His skin is smooth and warm underneath Daniel’s fingertips. Daniel can feel every inhale and exhale, the way the muscles contract and expand, feels them shift and move underneath his probing fingers. 

“This might hurt,” Daniel warns quietly and Johnny, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch at Daniel’s touch. The only thing that betrays his pain is the sharp inhale at the first press of Daniel’s fingertips into the first bruise. Daniel flicks his eyes upwards, but Johnny doesn’t protest, just stares straight ahead, jaw clenched, muscles taught and Daniel moves upwards, along each rib, checking for anything abnormal, watching Johnny’s face for any signs of discomfort or pain. 

When he reaches the last of the bruises, Daniel glances up and finds Johnny watching him, blue eyes soft, an odd expression on his face that Daniel can’t decipher. A part of him isn’t sure he wants to. 

“So what’s the prognosis, doc?” Johnny asks after a beat of silence, an amused smirk dancing on his lips. “Am I gonna make it?”

Daniel rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t know, man,” Daniel says with an overdramatic sigh. “It’s not looking too good. I give you about twenty-four hours to live.”

Johnny hums, head tilting sideways, blue eyes twinkling, like the lights on Christmas tree tucked away in the corner of the room. “Oh yeah?”

Daniel nods his head solemnly , biting his cheek to keep his laughter at bay. “I’m afraid so.”

Johnny hums again, a low sound that’s almost a _purr_ and he’s watching Daniel with those blue eye(s) and his blonde hair is falling into his eyelashes and Daniel’s really glad he’s sitting down because he’s pretty sure if he’d been standing, he would be clutching his pearls and swooning like those overdramatic ladies in those old movies his ma makes him watch with her sometimes. 

Because there’s no denying how attractive Johnny Lawrence is, even all banged up and bruised. If anything, it just adds to his overall hotness— _ruggedly handsome_ , his ma would describe him— and Daniel’s not really sure what that says about him as a person, but it’s just— _so_ unfair, how hot Johnny is. And he’s still looking at Daniel in a way that makes him feel all flustered. 

“Any suggestions on how I should spend my last few hours?” Johnny whispers, breath ghosting a warm caress over Daniel’s cheek. 

Daniel swallows, because there’s no drugs clouding his brain and he’s like, ninety-eight point eight percent sure that Johnny’s gotten closer and his voice is all low and suggestive and Daniel’s not like, an expert or anything, but he’s _pretty_ sure Johnny’s _flirting_ with him. 

Without thinking, Daniel’s eyes flicker to Johnny’s lips, swollen and red and split and bruised and _beautiful_ and when he looks back up, Johnny’s smirking down at Daniel, all cocksure and charming, like he _knows_ and it’s both terrifying and thrilling, like when Daniel learned down to block a punch successfully for the first time. Like, _hey, I’m doing it,_ but also, _what does it mean that I can do this?_ It’s like tapping into this unknown power for the first time and it’s _exhilarating._

“I can think of a few things,” Daniel murmurs breathlessly. 

Johnny laughs, low and rumbling and then he’s right _there,_ in Daniel’s space, hand cupping his cheek, fingers brushing _backandforth, backandforth_ along his cheekbone, callouses catching on the skin in a way that sends a shiver racing down Daniel’s spine, heating his insides and making him dizzy. 

Daniel doesn’t know who moves first, if it was Johnny— _strike first, strike hard_ —or if it was Daniel himself. All he knows is one moment, they were there and now they’re _here,_ lips pressed together, Johnny’s hands cupping Daniel’s face, Daniel’s hands bracing themselves on Johnny’s chest—Johnny’s _bare_ chest, Daniel’s mind supplies helpfully—and it’s awkward because of Johnny’s lip is still swollen and bruised and he’s got to hold himself at a weird angle because of his ribs and Daniel can’t really offer much help because of his knee, but it’s the _best_ kiss Daniel’s ever experienced in his life. 

Johnny’s lips tastes like the antiseptic Daniel used to clean his wounds and the metallic tang of blood, but when Daniel flicks his tongue teasingly along Johnny’s top lip—a plea for _more_ that Johnny responds to enthusiastically, parting his lips underneath Daniel’s, opening up for him, letting him in—Daniel can taste the sweetness from the cookie he stole from the kitchen counter immediately upon entering the apartment and it’s an odd combination, but it suits him, Daniel thinks wildly to himself. 

(He’ll examine himself more in-depth later)

Johnny kisses just like he fights—dominating, rough, _dirty,_ pulling out tricks that makes Daniel’s head spin and his knees quake and _want_ pool, low and hot in the pit of Daniel’s belly. 

Their lips part on a gasp and Daniel tastes blood in his mouth and he’s confused, until his eyes flutter open and he sees that the cut in Johnny’s lip has split open again. 

_“Shit—_ you’re bleeding, lemme—“ Daniel reaches around behind himself to grab another cotton ball and he presses it to Johnny’s swollen lip— swollen and bruised for a completely _different_ reason—

Daniel realizes belatedly that his hands are shaking. 

Johnny must feel it, because he grabs Daniel’s wrist and Daniel’s mind flashes back to earlier, in the back of Mr. Miyagi’s truck, when Johnny shoved him and Daniel tenses, bracing himself for impact—

But it doesn't come. 

Instead, he feels that familiar _backandforth_ , _backandforth,_ sweep of Johnny’s thumb along his fluttering pulse point and Johnny’s eyes are on him, watching Daniel with a calm that Daniel wishes he could feel. 

“Easy there, LaRusso,” Johnny murmurs, voice low, soothing. “It’s just me.”

Daniel swallows, breathes out a shaky breath and grabs another cotton ball, throwing the soiled one into the pile collecting on the coffee table, presses the new one to Johnny’s face, tries to calm his racing heart. 

“Hey,” Johnny whispers softly, cupping Daniel’s cheek. “Danny, it’s just me,” when Daniel doesn’t look reassured, a wrinkle appears between Johnny’s eyebrows that Daniel wants to smooth with his fingers, but he finds he can’t move. “Are you—“ Johnny pauses, swallows, blue eyes unsure, “are you like scared of me or something?”

Daniel shakes his head his head _no_. Thinks better of it and then nods, because _yeah,_ he’s kind of terrified right now, even though he’s not really sure why. 

Johnny, on the other hand, looks like he’s going to be sick. “Do you think I’m going to hurt you?”

Daniel opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again, can feel the words in his throat, wanting to come out, but they’re just not coming and he feels like an idiot, but he’s literally frozen, a deer caught in the headlights, unable to move.

Johnny’s face twists into something dark, eyes a stormy blue and he looks away from Daniel, at the wall, shoulders tense, muscles coiled like he’s ready for a fight. 

“Yeah, I guess I haven’t really given you much reason to trust me,” Johnny mutters, scoffing to himself in a self-deprecating way that makes Daniel’s chest ache.

“It’s not that,” Daniel says suddenly, startling himself and Johnny, who looks back at him with a cautious hope that makes Daniel’s stomach twist. 

“It’s—I just—“ He sighs, closing his eyes in frustration. He takes a breath, tries to center himself. Takes another one when the first one doesn’t work. Takes a third for good measure. 

When Daniel blinks his eyes open, Johnny’s watching him with that unreadable gaze that does nothing to ease the anxiety gnawing away at Daniel’s gut, but he trudges on anyways, because it’s physically paining him, at this point, to not fill the silence. 

“I am afraid of you,” Daniel says, wincing when he realizes what he said and tries again. “I’m like—afraid of you, not like— _that_ , not anymore—not that I _was_ , you know, _scared_ of you or whatever,” Daniel feels compelled to add, more for pride’s sake than anything else, even though that’s _so_ not the point at the moment. 

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s tired, _so_ tired and his knee hurts and now his brain is all scrambled and he’s so _scared_ and he doesn’t know what to do with all of these— _feelings._

“Look I don’t—I don’t get it, alright?” Daniel finally says. “The first time I met you, you beat the shit out of me just because I was talkin’ to Ali. And then there was the whole soccer try out fiasco—which, I still think is bullshit that I’m the one that got in trouble and—yeah, anyway— then there was the whole, you know, running me into a ditch thing and—look I just,” Daniel pauses, blowing out a frustrated breath. “I don’t really understand like, what this is, okay? It’s like one minute, you hate my guts and want to kill me over a girl and then we’re like, friends and then _this—“_ He gestures between them wildly, cheeks flushing because his lips are still tingling and his heart’s still all fluttery _and and_ —“and I’m just kinda really a lot confused.” He finally says, biting his lip. He really wishes he could get up and pace right now, but that’s really difficult to do on crutches and it’s just adding to his frustration and he just— _gah._

“Like you’re _you_ and I’m—well, _me_ and I’m just—“ Daniel breaks off, waving his hand in the air as he flounders for a word, _any word,_ to describe this feeling, any word other than—

“Confused?” Johnny supplies, lips quirking up into a grin, but his eyes are sad. 

Daniel nods, biting his lip, throat tight. “Yeah,” he breathes. 

Johnny nods, eyes trained on the floor, eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed and Daniel’s chest feels tight because Johnny looks— _resigned_ , almost like—

“I should go,” Johnny whispers, reaching for his shirt, slung carelessly over the armrest of the couch and Daniel freezes, heart in his throat as he watches Johnny struggle to get his shirt over his head and _no no no_ —

“W-what?” Daniel stammers, eyes blinking rapidly, head spinning because— “You want to leave? _Why?”_

Johnny manages to get his shirt on and if Daniel wasn’t so focused on the fact that Johnny was leaving, he’d mourn the loss at seeing all that skin on display disappearing from his sight. Johnny won’t meet Daniel’s eyes as he stands stiffly, face twisting into a grimace of pain when his ribs must protest the movement. 

Daniel scrambles to get up, ignoring the flare of pain in his knee when he stands up too fast but he doesn’t care because Johnny’s _leaving—_

“Jesus, LaRusso, sit down before you hurt yourself,” Johnny says, reaching out to steady him when he sways precariously on one foot. 

“I’m fine,” Daniel mutters between gritted teeth. He’s really _not_ fine, his knee fucking _hurts,_ like, almost as bad as when Bobby first landed the blow, can feel the muscles straining, the stitches that are holding him together pull ominously and it stings but it’s nothing compared to the ache building in his chest because Johnny wants to leave, _johnnywantstoleave—_

“Damn it, you’re not fine,” Johnny snaps, eyes flashing dangerously but Daniel welcomes it, welcomes the anger, because it’s distracting Johnny from leaving. “Now sit down before you do more damage—“

“Don’t tell me what to do—“

“ _Christ_ , you piss me off—

“Yeah, well you’re no fuckin’ picnic either—“

“— _Jesus_ just sit down—“

“— _you_ sit down—“

“Oh so now _you_ can boss _me_ around? That’s _rich_ , LaRusso—“

“It’s my house, dumbass, now sit down so we can talk—“

“—oh you call this _talking?”_

“—what else do you call it?

“Uh, _yelling_ —“

“—well, that’s about the only way to get you to shut up and listen to somethin’ other than yourself for once—“

“—are you telling me to shut up?”

“—See this? This is you, this is the point and you’re completely missin’ each other—“

“—you literally _just_ told me to shut up—“

“—I _didn’t_ , but now I wish I woulda, because you’re drivin’ me _crazy—_ “

“—yeah, well you drive me insane, LaRusso, absolutely, one hundred percent, certifiably _insane—“_

“—they mean the same thing, asshole—“

“—don’t call me an asshole—“

“—just callin’ it like I see it, Johnny—“

“Fuck you—“

“Fuck you. _Asshole—“_

“—oh that’s _real_ mature—“

“ _Oh that’s real mature—“_

“—did your balls drop yet LaRusso, because you sound like a girl—“

“—well, I was imitating you, so I guess I was pretty spot on—“

_“God_ , do you _ever_ shut up?” Johnny snaps.

“Make me,” Daniel challenges, jutting his chin out defiantly. “Go ahead, Johnny, _make me.”_

Johnny’s eyes flash dangerously, pupils dilating, _that_ fucking smirk dancing on his lips and Daniel flushes hot, feels the heat coil in his lower belly, his blood _singing_ with it. This is the most alive he’s felt since the tournament and he finds himself itching for it—the danger, the adrenalin, the ache in his muscles from a fight well fought.

It feels like they’re on the precipice of something, dancing close to the edge of this cliff they’ve been teetering on ever since they’ve known each other and Daniel hungers to take that leap, wants it so badly he can taste _it._

“Oh, you want me to make you?” Johnny rasps, voice hoarse and it sends a shiver zinging down Daniel’s spine. Johnny steps closer, into Daniel’s space, narrowing his vision down to Johnny and _Johnny_ alone, the rest of the world fading away. 

And _God_ , is that ever a metaphor for his life, Daniel thinks to himself. 

There’s a challenging glint in Johnny’s eyes and the sight is so familiar but the situation is so _different_ and Daniel meets it head on, body tingling in anticipation.

“Yeah,” Daniel murmurs, swallowing heavily, gaze unwavering. “I do.”

Johnny kisses him and it’s not _nice_ —it’s rough, demanding, almost _harsh,_ like a punch to the face and Daniel kisses back just as ruthlessly, delivering his own blow, pushing back and Johnny responds to it with another hit, nipping Daniel’s lip, sucking it between his own and Daniel’s head spins from. 

It’s teeth and tongue and lips and pants and moans, a different kind of fighting but the results are the same—the rush, the heat, the constant _pushpull_ , _pushpull_ and Daniel revels in it, chases the heat and the fire and let’s it consume him. 

Johnny’s hands are gripping his hips hard enough to bruise and the thought of it—being marked, being _claimed,_ being bruised up by Johnny because of _this—_ makes Daniel’s blood _sing,_ can feel all of it rush _downwards,_ cock hardening in his jeans and Johnny must feel it, because suddenly they’re falling backwards, over the armrest of the couch and then Johnny’s everywhere—on top of him, trapping Daniel’s body between his thighs, lips sucking bruises into his neck and Daniel rocks upwards, head spinning when he feels Johnny’s own erection straining in those stupid designer jeans that make his ass look _fantastic._

“God, you drive me crazy,” Johnny mutters into the sweaty skin of his neck and Daniel just hums, tilting his head back to give him more access, hips jumping when he feels Johnny’s teeth bite at the skin of his collarbone. 

Daniel tangles his fingers in the soft, ruffled strands of Johnny’s hair, tugging him upwards and then they’re kissing again, messy and wet and Daniel can taste the blood from Johnny’s split lip re-opening, _again,_ but it only arouses him more. It claws at his gut and he has no idea what it means, but he licks Johnny’s lip, like he can soothe Johnny’s pain, absorb it as his own and Johnny let’s him, cupping Daniel’s cheek, thumb stroking _backandforth, backandforth,_ their kisses slowing to languid and gentle and then they’re just together, foreheads pressed together, chests rising and falling in tandem with their shared breaths. 

“Don’t go,” Daniel whispers. “Don’t leave, don’t—“

_Leave me,_ he thinks, but doesn't say. 

But Johnny, as always, hears it anyways. 

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Johnny whispers back before he kisses Daniel again and it’s an apology—for even thinking of leaving in the first place—and a promise—to never think it again. 

“Good,” Daniel murmurs. 

“LaRusso?” Johnny mutters between kisses. 

“Yeah?” Daniel breathes, blinking up at Johnny through heavy lidded eyes. 

“Shut up,” Johnny whispers, eyes twinkling. 

Daniel brushes their foreheads together, lip a breath a part. _“Make me,”_ he whispers back. 

“Gladly.”

*

“Johnny?” Daniel whispers later on as Johnny sucks more bruises into his neck.

Johnny hums, nipping at a spot behind Daniel’s ear that makes him shiver, especially when Johnny soothes it with his tongue, tracing a pattern into his skin and Daniel forgets what he was going to say—

But then he catches a glimpse of the Christmas tree in the corner, casting the room in a technicolor glow and reflects in Johnny’s blonde hair, making it shimmer from where it catches the light and even though Daniel knows it’s gotta be well past midnight, it’s the thought that counts. 

“What, LaRusso?” Johnny demands, pulling away. “I’m doing some of my best work here—“ Johnny complains and it’s supposed to sound annoyed, but it comes out whiny and it makes Daniel grin, which makes Johnny stare down at him in annoyance

“Merry Christmas,” Daniel murmurs, tracing a finger over Johnny’s lips, where the cut had finally scabbed over. Traces over the bruise above his eyebrow, the angry black eye that they really need to put ice on. He feels a pang in his chest at how Johnny spent his day. Wishes, again, that Johnny would’ve been here, with him and his family. 

Johnny must see it, because his annoyance softens. “Yeah,” Johnny murmurs back, eyes tracing over Daniel’s face in a way that makes Daniel what to bask in the attention and hide away from it simultaneously. “Merry Christmas to me.”

Daniel rolls his eyes but he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face, because Johnny may be able to read Daniel, but what he fails to realize is that Daniel can read Johnny, too. 

And he knows what Johnny’s trying to say, especially when Johnny grins right back at him, blue eyes glinting, lips smirking, before those lips capture Daniel’s again and then they’re kissing again, Johnny’s thumb tracing _backandforth, backandforth_ over Daniel’s cheek and Daniel sinks into it with a happy hum.

They still have some things to figure out—things to discuss, individual wounds to heal, collective wounds that they need to heal together—but, the point is: they’re _here._ _Together_. Healing. _Together._

One day at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> So, a few things: 
> 
> *As I mentioned in the beginning notes, the All Valley Tournament took place earlier in this story so I could give their relationship time to grow. I had originally planned to have them kiss on NYE, but this ending literally wrote it's self and it ended up happening on Christmas. But fear not, I do plan to add to this and that story will take place during New Years :) I plan on writing that next, if there's enough interest in it. 
> 
> *Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles wasn't a show until the late 80's, but it was a comic book series that came out in '84 (this research was done on google, so forgive me if it's inaccurate)
> 
> *The NES (Nintendo Enertainment System came out, officially, in October of 85, but it WAS a thing overseas--namely, Japan--in the early 80's before they revamped it and improved it in order to mass market it. Also, some of the games didn't come out until much later in the 80's, but it's fiction, I get to bend the rules a little bit. I also used this as a vehicle to set up another glimpse into their relationship, in another story, that might get written. 
> 
> *I also just really wanted an excuse for Daniel and his mom to have a Moment™. I also wanted Mr. Miyagi to beat Daniel at Donkey Kong. So. No regrets. 
> 
> *I want to make this a series, but I plan on watching the show so I can study how Johnny and Daniel interact more and hopefully it'll help me grow the further I get into this. 
> 
> *I love the idea of Johnny calling Daniel "Danny". I also enjoy him calling Daniel LaRusso, because it just seems flirty and cute and I jus really love it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this and I hope I did the characters justice :) Please let me know if there's anything I can improve upon, I love feedback, it makes me happy :)
> 
> Until next time :)


End file.
